


Return to One's Roots

by FalconFate



Series: Tales of the Horseman [4]
Category: The Inheritance Cycle - Christopher Paolini
Genre: Does this count as horse therapy?, Healing, Horses, Murtagh is Not So Secretly a Horse Girl, Murtagh's background with horses, Post-Canon, Supportive Thorn (Inheritance Cycle), We're gonna say it counts as horse therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25704979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FalconFate/pseuds/FalconFate
Summary: Discovering himself thoroughly broke in the Therinsford market, Murtagh decides to fall back on his original career choice, before "murderous puppet" became his forced occupation: he finds a stable and offers his services as a trainer.
Series: Tales of the Horseman [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1864219
Comments: 10
Kudos: 34





	Return to One's Roots

**Author's Note:**

> BREAKING: FalconFate writes ANOTHER horse fic!

Therinsford’s midweek market was bustling, busy, and vexingly out of Murtagh’s price range. This fact was impressive, since it was one of the most inexpensive markets Murtagh had ever been to.

Nonetheless, the fact remained that, after three years of self-imposed exile and living off of what he found in nature with Thorn, only occasionally coming into a town or village to buy necessities he couldn’t make himself, he had somehow, impossibly, exhausted his funds without even realizing it—until today, when he found himself seven silvers short to buy a seven silver coat. He certainly didn’t have enough coppers to pay seven silvers’ worth, and his habit of overtipping the barmaids whenever he ate a meal at a tavern meant he had no gold coins left. Short of forging his own coins out of silver he could pull from the ground, there was no way that Murtagh could actually pay for anything.

So now, short of both cash and a new coat, Murtagh was looking for work.

 _You know, you_ ** _could_** _make your own coins,_ a voice in his head reminded him gently. _Or just pull up some gold and silver and sell it raw._

 _I haven’t the skill nor knowledge to make my own coins,_ Murtagh grumbled back. _And selling raw metal would be suspicious. There aren’t any gold or silver mines in these parts, and people would ask questions._

 _People should mind their own business,_ the voice complained.

Murtagh suppressed a snort of laughter as he navigated the crowded market square, but he knew his jaded amusement would echo across the psychic connection. _I wholeheartedly agree, but I have never been that lucky._

He felt something that might have been a sigh from the owner of the other voice. _Well, what_ ** _are_** _you going to do? You’re no tradesmith, and I doubt anyone wants to hire a bodyguard with a red sword. Is there a library? Maybe you can sort books,_ the voice suggested musingly.

 _I don’t know about libraries, Thorn,_ Murtagh replied, allowing himself a small grin. _But I think I see an opportunity._ With a sudden burst of purpose, Murtagh pushed his way across the bustling square and a short way down a side street, which was clamoring with the sounds of hawkers, hammers, and horses. Leatherworkers were displaying their wares of saddles, bridles, and bags, farriers announced their work with the confident ring of hammer on horseshoe, and the young children of the livery yard detailed the clean hay and comfort of their open stalls, but Murtagh didn’t stop at any of these.

At the end of the side street was a barn even larger than that of the livery stables. The wide double doors led to an even wider aisle, though beyond the entrance the interior of the barn was lost in shadow. Behind the barn Murtagh could see four large arenas, and beyond those were a few pastures scattered with horses, some of them foals; Therinsford being a town on the small side, there was no surrounding wall, and so the pasture fences stretched well past the surrounding buildings.

 _And just what are you planning to do here?_ Thorn asked curiously.

 _Something I’m good at,_ was Murtagh’s reply. He was close enough now to almost be able to see inside, and among the dim shadows he could make out two rows of airy stalls, some of them with occupants that hung their heads over their doors. He was also close enough to read the sign hung above the double doors, words painted beneath a rearing white mare: _Haberth’s Breeding and Schooling Stable._

Murtagh had barely reached the doors when he was greeted by a brawny man, who had a kind (if somewhat harried-looking) smile and a saddle perched on his hip, as well as a great mass of leather straps—what looked to be a bridle, breastplate, and girth—slung over one shoulder. “Welcome! My name’s Haberth, I run this barn. What can I do you for?”

“You breed and train here?” Murtagh asked.

“Aye, that I do,” Haberth confirmed. He gestured inside with his chin. “If you wouldn’t mind following me inside?” He led Murtagh nearly to the far end of the aisle, where he stopped at a stall which housed a stallion with a coal black coat. “I hope you don’t mind if I talk business and ready this fellow at the same time,” Haberth said apologetically.

“Not at all,” Murtagh reassured him.

“Right, then,” said Haberth, as he hung the bridle, breastplate, and girth on a hook by the stall door, and unfolded a wooden bar from the wall to rest the saddle on. He plucked a brush from the bucket attached to the horse’s stall door, stepped inside, and began brushing the stallion down with brisk purpose. “Are you looking for any sort of steed in particular? I have a good stock of draft, several good runners, some strong long-distance horses, and a line descended from Masilliam himself—are you familiar with the studbook?”

“I am, and I myself trained with Masilliam and Holfir colts,” said Murtagh, delighted to be speaking a language he knew well, “but I’m not here to buy. I’d actually like to find a job, if you’re offering.”

Now Haberth looked at him with an appraising gaze, as if Murtagh himself was a horse at auction. “Well, you’ve come looking at just the right time,” Haberth said thoughtfully. “I’m shorthanded at the moment, both in the stable and in the arena. What’s your experience with training?”

“I backed and trained some of the colts where I learned to ride,” said Murtagh, remembering his childhood escapes from the stuffiness of court into Urû’baen’s riding yard. The stablemaster, Pelsa, hadn’t cared a lick for who his father was, so long as he could muck the stables and wrangle the stallions. “I was also given a foal, Tornac, to raise and train myself, as a sort of final exam, which we both passed with flying colors.”

“Did you now?” Haberth said appreciatively. “Do you have him with you?”

With a pang of anguish, Murtagh shook his head. “No. A few years ago I was… we got separated. I haven’t seen him since.” Not for the first time, Murtagh wondered what had happened to his dear companion. He could only hope that Eragon had made sure Tornac was taken care of by the Varden.

Haberth looked at him for a long, solemn moment, his hands stilling. After a long pause, he said seriously, “Well, your grief over him certainly seems true.” He returned his attention to the black stallion, trading the brush for a hoofpick. “And if you worked with Masilliam and Holfir lines… you rode at Illirea—though it would’ve been Urû’baen then, wouldn’t it?” He glanced up for confirmation, and Murtagh’s startled look was clearly enough of an answer. Haberth chuckled warmly. “A good breeder knows his studbook,” he said cheerfully. “And the Urû’baen training exams were the stuff of nightmares, as I recall.”

Finished with the stallion’s hooves, Haberth stood, placed the pick back in the box with the brushes, and dusted off his hands. “You have a name, son?”

For a split second, Murtagh panicked. He hadn’t been thinking when he told Haberth that his horse’s name was Tornac, which was the name he’d been using himself for the past few years—a hard habit to break, for the first syllable that sprang from his lips was “Tor—”

_shit crap shit think quickly think quickly think_

“—selen,” he finished awkwardly.

Haberth didn’t seem to notice his stumble over the name, stretching a hand over the stable door for Murtagh to shake. “Alright, Torselen, how’s this—you saddle up this fellow, tell me how old he is, and put him through his paces in the arena, maybe teach him something new. If I’m satisfied, I’ll hire you on as a trainer.”

Gratitude and excitement swelled together in Murtagh’s chest, and he couldn’t stop himself from grinning delightedly.

“Now, I haven’t hired you yet, mind,” Haberth told him pointedly as he stepped out of the stall, allowing Murtagh inside. “I’ll watch you from here.”

Though it had been years since Murtagh had even seen the inside of a stall, the scents of straw, hay, grain, horse hair, and even less pleasant things brought back a rush of memories: escaping to the haven of the stable yard well before dawn, learning the personalities and individual needs of every horse in Urû’baen, the rush of pride whenever Pelsa gave a nod of approval for his work.

Murtagh approached the stallion, who greeted him with a friendly huff of air and allowed Murtagh to stroke his neck. Not doubting Haberth’s expertise, but always trained to check everything himself, Murtagh ran his hands down the stallion’s neck, sides, and each leg before checking all four hooves, making a quick assessment of the horse’s conformation and checking for possible injury or lameness. He then gently coaxed the stallion to let him have a look at his teeth, and was able to confidently tell Haberth that the stallion was between four and a half and five years old.

Haberth’s expression was carefully neutral, but he nodded in agreement with Murtagh’s assessment. Murtagh quickly saddled and bridled the stallion, checking that all the tack fit well, and then, at Haberth’s direction, led him to the largest of the four arenas.

Murtagh swung easily into the saddle, and quickly settled into the seat. He urged the stallion into a brisk marching walk, keeping one hand on the reins while the other deftly adjusted his stirrups to the right length, and checking the tightness of the girth as well. As he led the stallion through a thorough warm up, Murtagh encouraged him to stretch through his topline, before confidently collecting him in hand and investigating the full scope of the stallion’s training.

After well over half an hour of lateral movements, collections and extensions in every gait, and keeping collected and composed through only one mess—someone’s wolfhound leapt the fence into the arena and right into the black stallion’s path, making him rear in surprise, but Murtagh was quick to calm the stallion and get back to work—Murtagh encouraged the stallion to stretch again, trotting on a long rein to cool him out.

By the time Murtagh and the stallion transitioned to a relaxed, forward walk, Haberth’s neutral expression had split into a broad grin. “You’re hired, right enough!” he declared. “If you can train up my stock and teach my students to ride like that, I daresay we’ll have a proper riding school in Therinsford within a few years.”

But Murtagh was stuck at one word in particular. “ _Teach?_ ” he repeated uncertainly.

Haberth nodded enthusiastically. “Aye, teach!” he said warmly. “If you’ll be alright with that. With the Queen’s equal opportunity programs, many of the young folk from working class families come here to learn proper riding, so they don’t have to bareback their plow horses to Teirm or Dras Leona. You’d be well paid to teach them your fancy riding, mark my words.”

 _We’d have to stick around, it seems,_ Thorn commented. He’d been quiet for so long, Murtagh was surprised that Thorn was still paying attention.

 _I’m not sure I can teach,_ Murtagh fretted, turning the stallion on a wide loop to buy himself time before he answered Haberth. _Especially kids. Thorn, I’m terrible with kids!_

 _You’re really not,_ Thorn told him exasperatedly. _Remember Essie?_

_Essie was different!_

_Yes, you found something with which to relate to her,_ Thorn pointed out. _These will be hatchlings interested in learning about the little deer-creatures, as you once were. And besides,_ he added smugly, _if you’re so unconfident in your teaching abilities, you really should practice. Eragon wanted us to help train the next generation of Shur’tugal, remember?_

Murtagh hesitated. _You’re fine with staying around for a while?_ he asked. _Months? Years, maybe?_

 _As long as you need to be here, here we shall stay,_ Thorn said firmly. _I’ve found a lovely spot for myself. All you need is lodgings and a wage._

 _All right,_ Murtagh said finally. He made sure Thorn felt his gratitude through their connection before returning his attention to Haberth. “If you’d like me to teach,” he said solemnly, making sure his voice carried, “then I’m willing to learn how.”

Haberth clapped his hands together in delight. “Excellent!” As Murtagh halted in front of him and dismounted, Haberth shook his hand once more. “Torselen,” he declared seriously, “I look forward to working with you.”

**Author's Note:**

> Let me know if y'all want clarification of horse terminology, or if you have questions about anything! I spent four years learning this stuff, I will gladly answer!
> 
> Comments and kudos are, as always, much appreciated! Hope y'all are doing well! Stay safe!


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